


words we leave unspoken

by evergreenstringbean



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Based on the short film 1500 Words, Brief Humor, M/M, brief mention of attempted suicide, not a serious attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 09:01:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20812517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evergreenstringbean/pseuds/evergreenstringbean
Summary: Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier has 1500 words left to live.He has more than 1500 words left to say.





	words we leave unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily based on the short film 1500 Words because I'm unoriginal but yeah here

When Richie Tozier was told he had 1500 words left to live, his reaction could be said to consist of five distinct stages.

Firstly, anger.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! There’s no damn way! I knew you were a quack,” he shouted, watching as the doctor sitting across from him held up a counter and clicked the button that slowly counted down from 1500 with each click, each word Richie shouted at him.

Then came despair.

He sat in the chair and gripped his hair so hard he was sure it’d rip out. “I don’t wanna die damn it, I may be getting old but I’m still fucking kicking…there’s so much shit I still haven’t done.”

Then a terrible thirst.

“God, I need a drink…” he groaned. “Or seven.”

A brief, half-hearted attempt at suicide.

The doctor watched as Richie wrapped his belt around his throat, but made no effort to stop him. He’d seen enough patients go through these exact stages. He knew nothing would come of it, and knew better than to interfere.

And finally, quiet resignation.

Richie was once again calm, not particularly fine, but enough that he had no more emotions he could accurately articulate to a doctor who still had to repeat the same diagnosis to the same types of people for the rest of the day, if not the rest of his life.

When he finished, the doctor straightened his tie, stood from his seat, and informed Richie that the total now stood at fifty. He handed him a silver metallic counter, then returned to his seat to continue his paperwork. Richie stared at the counter for longer than intended, looking at the number that seemed so irrational to him. Fifty words. _Fifty._

As he made his way to the door, the doctor cleared his throat to speak again. “If you really start to struggle,” he began, reaching into his desk and handing a card with a phone number on it to Richie. “Call this number.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Forty-eight.”

“…_Fuck,_” Richie spat, turning and walking out the door.

“…Forty-seven.”

**~*~**

Richie thought it was really ironic. The trashmouth who never knew when to stop talking was now confined to his last few words. There were so many things he never said. So many jokes he never told. So many people he never shared his thoughts with.

One person in particular was the one he was most dreading to tell about his situation. Eddie was a hypochondriac, consistently concerned not only for his own health and safety but for that of his friends. So if Richie told him he had maybe five full sentences left to live, he’d lose his mind. And Richie couldn’t do that to him. So, while driving home to the apartment he shared with his freshly divorced best friend, he decided he’d keep it a secret. After all, they’d known each other their entire lives. What more needed to be said.

_Oh, so much more needed to be said, and Richie knew it._

For the next few days, Richie decided to set up a game plan. These last words had to count, and they had to last. So he decided he’d go from never keeping his mouth shut to saying only one word a day. In other situations he’d respond in hums or nods. He thought to just send Eddie a text message, but in the things he read online, words written or typed were counted as well (which now took his total down to 39).

Most days it was just something random, a slip of the tongue when Eddie would ask what they should order for dinner. As soon as Richie would reply, he’d instantly react with a quiet groan and click the button. Other days it would be Eddie’s name. Those were his favorite days. He could hear Eddie’s name over and over again until he died, which he thought for a bit would most likely end up being the case. Some days he thought that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

This went on for almost three weeks, and Eddie was getting sick of it. The man he who called him dumb nicknames or joked about fucking his mother had just changed in a day, and had essentially become mute. It didn’t make any sense.

It was a normal Thursday afternoon at first, before everything went to shit and Eddie blew a fuse. He’d spent the whole day trying to get a word out of Richie. He’d tried everything. Insulting him, cracking a joke, asking question after question, but after the thousandth shrug and millionth nod, he was done.

“Okay, what the fuck is wrong with you, Trashmouth? Or should I just drop the nickname now because _you never fucking talk to me anymore_?”

Richie sat up from where he’d been laying in the recliner to look at Eddie. He tried to say all the things left unsaid in his eyes, and hoped to god Eddie would see it.

But, of course he didn’t. “I mean, one minute you’re talking my ear off and the next I can barely get one goddamn word out of you! Is it me?! What the hell did I do to you?!”

_It’s not you- God, it’s never you, Eds. Please don’t blame yourself._

“If it’s something I did…” The bite in Eddie’s tone faded and was replaced with hurt. “Then…just tell me. I can’t stand this silent treatment, Rich.”

_It kills me to see you like this._

“Fuck, kick me out or something. I know I’ve been mopey about my divorce and I can be an annoying bitch about it, but I just can’t deal with the quiet. Especially not around you.”

_It’s never you._

“Just say something.”

_ I’m dying._

“Say something!”

**_I love you._**

But before Richie could even open his mouth, Eddie’s look changed back to anger and he stormed out of the room. “I’ll be out of the apartment by tomorrow. I’ll call Stan and ask him to help me get my things.”

The sound of the door slammed drowned out Richie’s “Wait!”, making his click from 21 to 20 utterly wasted.

**~*~**

Despite all the times Richie swore he wouldn’t go back to Derry, he admitted it had an air of comfort to it as he crossed into the town. It was familiar, and since the people in it either didn’t know him or didn’t recognize him, he didn’t have to worry about wasting his words. For once, he wasn’t worried about wasting his life in fucking Derry.

As he drove through the slow and empty town, he also thought of each memory appearing in his mind from his childhood. Summers at the quarry, running out of school on the last day and dumping the contents of his backpack into the nearest trashcan, riding his bike with the rest of the losers surrounding him. Eddie’s smile as he pedaled alongside him, laughing at some joke Richie had made.

And when he parked his car along the tree line, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the passenger seat and made his way to the one place he could think of to remember the good times. The clubhouse.

Finding it wasn’t too difficult, since the last time they’d seen each other Ben had fallen through the door, forever leaving it open to whoever or whatever came across it. So Richie decided to not think about any possible woodland creatures inhabiting the hideout as he climbed down and immediately opened the bottle. Whether he was drinking to remember or drinking to forget, he wasn’t sure, but he did know that when he could see straight through the bottle he was fucked and wasn’t making it out of the clubhouse that night.

**~*~**

Richie awoke with a start the next morning, counter in hand and his heart dropped when his vision focused on the number 1 with zeros in front of it. He thought back to the night before and just barely recalled shouting “Eddie” over and over at a seemingly curious squirrel who, as he had predicted, had made himself a home in the corner of the clubhouse.

He groaned and rubbed his temples to try and make the pain of his headache subside before reaching into his pocket to grab his wallet. He wanted to look at the photos in one of the pockets. The photo of all the losers in the booth together as kids, one of them all flipping off the camera as teenagers, and one of them all happily smiling together as adults, feeling nothing but pure joy in their newfound nostalgia of their friendship.

In every single photo, he and Eddie were side-by-side, both smiling. Both happy. Nothing compare to the anger and hurt in the man’s eyes the day before. Richie couldn’t stand that. He wished he could’ve done anything to make that look disappear. Any word he could have said to stop it.

As he put the photos away and looked into another pocket of his wallet, something else jumped out at him. The card with the number his doctor had given him.

_If you really start to struggle, call the number._

So Richie pulled out his phone and dialed the digits carefully, letting it ring for a few seconds until a robotic voice came from the other line.

**Hello. Please enter how many words you have left.**

Richie pressed the number 1 and put the phone back to his ear.

**You have- one- words left. Is this correct? Press one for yes, or three for no.**

Again, he pressed one.

**I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like to hear a list of suggested last words? Press one for yes, or three f-**

Richie didn’t let it finish speaking before pressing one.

**Suggested last words: Sorry. Why? Thanks. Dead. **

He rolled his eyes. What shitty last words.

**If you would like us to send a loved one a recorded message, press zero.**

Eddie’s eyes were on his mind as he pressed the number.

**Please put in the number of whom you would like to send your message to on your keypad now.**

Richie did as told, and the tears that began to fall made it harder to type.

**You typed in the number for: Edward Kaspbrak. Is this correct? Press one for yes, or-**

He was getting sick of this fucking machine’s voice.

**Great. Composing suggested message to Edward Kaspbrak now. Dear Edward Kaspbrak, I’m so sorry, I’m dead. I’ll be waiting for you in heaven. Would you like to sent this message? Press one for yes, or three for-**

Richie had never pressed three so fast in his life.

**To record your own personal message to Edward Kaspbrak, press zero now.**

After a brief hesitation, Richie sighed and pressed zero.

**For suggested adjectives which best describe your loved one, press one. **

Richie knew those. _Neurotic, Funny, Charming, Caring, Kind, Beautiful…Amazing._

** For help recalling the first time you met, press two.**

He pulled out his wallet to look at the photos again. He could never forget the first time they met, when they were little kids and picked on each other during recess. When afterwards Eddie laughed and Richie followed suit because something about Eddie Kaspbrak’s laugh was just so fucking infectious.

**For help putting into words how much you love them, press three.**

_Richie sits on Bill’s couch, muttering curses as Eddie starts to poke and prod at the cuts on his face. _

_ “Man, Bowers really beat the shit out of you, huh?” Eddie mumbled, though his voice sounded like his joking was covering up some hints of worry. _

_ “You should see him,” he muttered back, though it was an empty lie none of them believed. Bowers was rough, and Richie’s big mouth often got him the short end of the stick when it came to the violent boy’s temper. Not that it was different than the rest of them though._

_ Eddie stands in front of him, and he swears that the boy’s eyes are what the universe needs to correct itself. It’s cheesy and dumb but it’s right to him. It’s something about Eddie he just can’t quite explain. _

_ He realizes later that it’s love._

**For more time, press four.**

_More time. _God how Richie thought he had more time. He thought he’d have all the time in the world to tell Eddie how he felt, how he’d been in love with him for literal decades and then the truth would finally be out and he could actually breathe.

**I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Would you like more time?**

Even as an adult, Eddie’s eyes were warmer than ever. They still held a bite to them, something in him that was ready to fight back at any stupid comment that Richie had made, ready to argue and bicker until one of them laughed or shoved the other.

Richie would give anything to just see that challenging glare again.

**Would you like more time?**

He thought of all the things he wanted to tell Eddie. All the secrets he hid, the time he kept in the shadows of hurting but loving. He wanted to say, _I love you. I’m sorry I never told you and never said something sooner. I’m sorry if you don’t love me back but I needed you to know, because I’ve lived with this secret for years and I can’t die with this secret too. _

_ I’ve been in love with you for far too long, Eddie Kaspbrak, and my time’s been cut short._

How could he say that in one word?

**Would you like more ti-**

_“Yes!” _Richie shouted, and the realization hit him like a truck.

The counter clicked to zero.

And the phone dropped to the ground.

Eddie’s calls were sent to voicemail.

And Richie’s secret died with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Yell at me on twitter @allin_ev_itable


End file.
